


caught in the crossfire (of heaven and hell)

by misura



Category: The Hitman's Bodyguard (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-29 08:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Michael's no-good, very bad day. And night. And morning.





	caught in the crossfire (of heaven and hell)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stratisphyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/gifts).



Michael'd managed to snag a good job. A great job. The client also turning out to have hired a plethora of other bodyguards was a bit of a downer but, on the other hand, Michael told himself that it was a great opportunity to network and also to get a good, up-close look at the competition.

True, all those other guys (and a few girls) were cramping his style just a bit, but eh.

And then, of course, he overheard some guys who looked like they knew nothing about anything, except maybe how to play dress-up like Men in Black for Halloween, and they were saying something that sounded a lot like 'Darius Kincaid wants to kill this guy'.

"Excuse me, what?" Michael said.

He felt himself get silently but thoroughly judged for his lack of cool sunglasses.

"Darius Kincaid," said one of them. Michael decided to refer to him as A. (Will Smith, the guy wasn't.)

"He's an assassin," said another one, whom Michael would refer to as B. (He wasn't that guy who wasn't Will Smith either. Which, fine, _most_ people weren't Will Smith, but eh.)

"I know who Darius Kincaid is, thanks," Michael said. "He's here? You're sure?"

They were sure.

_Fuck my life,_ thought Michael, and went to make a phone call.

 

"So what?" Amelia said. He'd probably caught her at a bad time. It happened, when you were on different continents.

"So what?" Michael repeated. "Darius Kincaid! We're - " Well, no, they weren't friends. Definitely not. They weren't _enemies_ , exactly, but. He snapped his fingers. "Frenemies! That's the word. We're frenemies. Really good frenemies."

"I'm not sure what you're looking for," Amelia said.

Michael considered asking if he should call back later, except that she might say 'yes', and then what? Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. Some questions were just better left unasked.

"Validation?" he suggested. "True love? Oh, hey, world peace, how's that? I mean, who doesn't want world peace?"

"Do you plan to let him kill your client?" Amelia asked. Someone asked something in the background. It sounded vaguely Asian. Vietnamese, maybe?

"Do I - no."

"Then what's the problem?" Amelia replied something in -

_Seriously,_ fuck _my life,_ Michael thought. "Is that Sonia? Are you having a girl's night out? That's so nice. Say 'hi' to her for me, all right? Sorry, babe. Gotta go. Bad guys to protect, worse guys to shoot, you know how it goes."

 

So that had been productive. Michael wandered around for a bit. He tried to be philosophical about the whole thing. When that didn't work, he tried statistics.

Fact, Darius was very good at killing people.

Fact, Michael was totally better at protecting people than Darius was at killing them. The facts spoke for themselves, and the facts, sir, did not lie.

"I've got this." Michael inhaled and exhaled again slowly.

He was by himself in the men's room. The guy staring back at him from the mirror looked like he got this. Sharp-dressed, professional. _Not_ the kind of idiot who wore sunglasses indoors just to look cool.

"You've got this," he told his reflection. "You've so totally got this. In the bag, out of the bag."

Someone kicked open the door to a bathroom stall. Michael threw up his hands, then realized that there was, in fact, nothing there to see. At least, nothing he hadn't seen before.

"Are you _sure_ you've got this?" Darius asked.

 

"Motherf- " Darius said, ten minutes and one impromptu car theft later.

"I - " said Michael. He wanted to grovel. He didn't want to grovel. Communication was always so complicated. Important, but complicated. "I uh, okay, so I shot you."

"You don't say," Darius said. "Where's my gun?"

"Er," said Michael.

"You left my gun, I really am going to kill you. Fucking son of a bitch. You shot me!"

Michael kept his attention on the road. It was a very nice road. It deserved people paying attention to it. "I believe I already said that, yes, but thank you for repeating the information just in case I'd missed it. Your gun's in a bag in the back. And so is your other gun. Your _other_ other gun. Some knives. And, I think, some kind of garrotte?"

"I floss," Darius said.

"Excellent! Dental hygiene, so important," said Michael.

Darius stared out of the window for a while.

"So uh," Michael said, "are we cool? I mean, I shot you, you didn't shoot my client. Sounds to me like we're cool, right? Don't you think that sounds like we're cool?"

"Bitch, please," said Darius.

Michael decided to take that as a 'yes'.

 

He found them a nice-looking hotel. It wasn't that hard. It was that kind of country. Nice.

"Huh. You brought underwear especially for me?" Darius said as they walked up to the reception desk. "What are you, a fucking Boy Scout?"

Michael smiled a charming smile at the receptionist who hopefully didn't speak English. (She almost certainly did. It was that kind of country, after all. Nice roads, nice hotels, nice people.)

"Coincidence," he told Darius. "Let's not be weird about this, okay? And you're welcome."

"Did I say thank you?" Darius asked. "You shot me! He fucking shot me!"

The receptionist looked suitably confused and vaguely sympathetic. Also, just a tiny bit inclined to consider maybe calling the police, which would suck. For the police, mostly, but hey.

"Paintball tournament," Michael said. "He really doesn't want to talk about it."

"Guess again, motherfucker," said Darius.

Michael tried to signal with his eyebrows that this was a nice hotel in a nice country, so maybe ease up on the language a little, motherfucker?

Darius scowled, but he shut up, so Michael felt a lot better about the state of their relationship, right until the receptionist gave him the good/bad news.

 

"All right," Michael said, after he'd finished securing the room. "So."

"So." Darius sat down on the edge of the very big but alas not separable bed. "You shot me. How about we start with that?"

"Total self-defense," Michael said. "And hey, I got your guns. And you get, what, half the money up front? _And_ I paid for the room. Breakfast included."

"Excuse me?"

"They serve breakfast here. Between seven and ten," said Michael.

"Self-defense? Bitch, please. In what universe does putting a fucking bullet in my ass count as fucking 'self-defense'?"

"The one where you were trying to kill me?" Michael said. "I mean, hel-lo? Me, bodyguard, you, assassin."

"You dumb motherfucker! We're friends! You think a couple hundred thou is - what? Enough of a reason to go around killing your friends? What suck-ass attitude is that?"

"Well, now I just feel awkward."

"Good!" Darius said. "You should! Fuck's sake!"

 

Next thing Michael knew, he was being assaulted by something or actually, make that someone. There was a lot of yelling. In Spanish.

"Uh. This totally isn't what it looks like?"

He'd been wrecked by guilt, obviously. Well, he'd felt a little guilty. All right, a lot. Still, a man needed to sleep, and the bed had been very nice, so he'd fallen asleep.

Apparently, either he or Darius was a cuddler. Who knew?

"Not what it looks like?" Sonia said. She was straddling him in a way that was really not at all suggestive. Nope. No way, Jose. "Eh? _Hijo de puta_!"

"Can we leave my mother out of this, please? A perfectly nice woman. You'd like here, I'm sure. Just ask Amelia. She's met my mother. You've met my mother, right? Sweet old lady, right?"

Amelia gave him a look. "She told me she didn't think you were good enough for me."

"And was she wrong?" Michael asked. "See? I rest my case."

Sonia took a deep breath.

"Baby," Darius said. Darius was a brave man, Michael decided. A good friend. A great guy. Upon closer examination, and having given the matter some more thought, Michael ought not to have shot him. "Baby. Come on. He didn't mean it. You know he didn't mean it. He's just a dumb fuck idiot, that's all."

"You!" said Sonia. "You!"

Michael decided that now was an excellent time to go check out the breakfast buffet.

 

There was a lot to check out. A _lot_. Michael grabbed a plate and got himself a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Amelia got some coffee.

"Are you disappointed in me?" Michael asked. "Honestly, I thought he was going to kill me."

"I understand," Amelia said.

"Oh." Michael swallowed. Good stuff, really.

"I still think you're an idiot," said Amelia.

"Well, hey. _I_ think I'm an idiot. I mean, what else is new?" Michael considered. "I'm going to have to make it up to him somehow, aren't I? How do you say 'I'm sorry' to a badass assassin while making sure he still respects you in the morning?"

Amelia sipped her coffee and looked inscrutable. Scrumptious and definitely too good for him (Mother always knew best) but inscrutable.

"You're right. Not your problem. Never mind, I'm sure I'll come up with something."

Amelia got up and went for a refill.

Michael decided that Darius had been right. Nothing in this world mattered if there wasn't that someone special to tell all about it later.

In that spirit, he decided now was as good a time as any to be the proverbial bigger man and take the first step towards reconciliation. Never put off until the afternoon what you might as easily accomplish in the morning, that sort of thing.

 

People were right when they said karma was a bitch. Michael bet she was from Honduras, too. (Hondurese? Hondurian?) Or some other place where people spoke Spanish.

"Oh, look," Darius said. "Matching bandages."

"She shot me." Michael felt betrayed and obscurely disappointed. If Darius had shot him, he might have felt ... not obscurely disappointed. "Sonia - your wife shot me."

"I know. I was there," said Darius. "I also happen to know that we put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door."

"You know how often I've gotten shot?"

"Including this time?" Darius shrugged. "Twice."

"Twice!" Michael said. "And both times it was your fault! I'd call that a 'pattern', wouldn't you?"

"So what are you still doing here?" said Darius. "Hop on a fucking bus, grab a fucking plane. Whatever, man. Get the hell out of here. Clearly, that's where the smart money is."

"No." Michael shook his head. He felt a bit light-headed. "No. You were right."

"This should be good. Which time? I mean, I know I'm right, but which time, specifically, did I have you convinced that I was right?"

Michael took a deep breath. "We're friends. And friends stick together, no matter what."

Darius gave him a look. "You mean, even when the other guy's a fuck-up who shot you. That kind of shit? Just, forgive and forget? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes!" Michael said. "Although we can very much talk about the fact that your wife shot me. I'm wide open on that topic of conversation. All yours. So what do you say?"

"Fuck you, man. Seriously." Darius was grinning a bit, though, so Michael figured they were okay.

"Fuck you right back, motherfucker," he said. "So where are we going?"


End file.
